Марта Уэллс - From a Certain Point of View

One moment of precision. How that spike came to be, Palpatine remained unsure. Only vague certainties appeared despite his efforts. There was a pilot. One in the Rebellion. One that flew an X-wing during that battle. One that pulled that trigger.

But that pilot’s connection to the Force? It remained a mystery, even up until moments ago.

Then everything changed.

Because as Palpatine felt the great disturbance, he gave in to the chaos, riding through the Force’s crashing waves and underlying slipstreams until the source revealed itself. An energy rippled outward, a frequency that answered one question and created another.

This was indeed connected to that rebel pilot from three years ago. And yet there was more.

The Force surged, something gathering defenses around the disturbance, pushing all who dared approach away. But Palpatine fought back, clawing his way to the eye of the storm, step by step. The current retaliated, shielding itself like a sun-dragon guarding its treasures with all the might of an exploding star.

But the dark side was too strong.

Palpatine was too strong.

Sheer will powered Palpatine through as it always did, fending off the determination of someone or some thing wanting to hide this, a secret held so tightly that the very desire to protect it gave itself away, if only for a blink.

Much as the Force spoke to the rebel pilot pulling the trigger, it revealed itself to Palpatine here. Not by guiding the launch of torpedoes, but with a vision.

—

What Palpatine saw in the Force should have frightened him.

On the floor of his office in the Imperial capital lay the bodies of two Royal Guards, their severed red helmets tossed across the space. And next to them, a figure stood.

Stoic. Intimidating. Cold.

Just as the Sith of legend, with power emanating from its very breath.

The Sith, after all, always attempted a coup. It was the way of things.

This figure remained at attention, the crimson glow of a drawn lightsaber reflecting off panoramic transparisteel. Shadows cast over the figure’s hooded face, a brief glance enough to show that it was a young man; not an old wizard like Dooku, not covered in demonic tattoos like Maul, and not a lumbering clash of organic and mechanical like Vader.

Only, it seemed, a boy.

Draped in black, his cloak hid any other identifying details. He walked calmly, circling the floor until he came within range of the large chair at the end of the space.

Palpatine watched, his perspective stuck near the office’s entry as the vision unfolded. From the far chair rose another hooded figure, one that he recognized clearly as his own doppelgänger. The mystery assailant raised his lightsaber, holding it in a ready position as the Emperor approached his attacker.

The Sith of lore always contested in an endless battle of Master and apprentice. Palpatine himself had experienced these visions when visiting Moraband, Malachor, and other places steeped in the dark side. Always the hooded apprentice wielding a lightsaber. Always the arrogant walk up to the intended target.

Sometimes the Master fell. Mostly the apprentice fell, a victim of their own naïveté and hubris. Either way, it played out as the familiar dance under the Rule of Two.

This encounter felt different. This felt more. Each step the boy in the hood took echoed and rippled outward, not just in the vision but through the undertow of the Force. He paused, his lightsaber going silent, the red blade slinking back into its hilt. His other hand raised, fingers pushing down against nothing.

A choke.

Palpatine watched the Emperor retaliate. Lightning burst forth from his fingers, but the power of the choke stymied his assault; the electricity spidered outward, grazing the boy but dancing all over the room, shattering vases and catching nearby curtains on fire. The lightning ceased, and instead a subtle click sound came from a back chamber, soon followed by the whirl of a lightsaber handle whipping through the air, heading toward the Emperor’s open palm.

But it never arrived.

Instead, the hooded figure turned his head, a simple look pausing the lightsaber hilt in midflight. The boy nodded, and a red blade of energy emerged from the floating lightsaber, tip inching toward the Emperor.

Palpatine could practically feel the Emperor retaliate with dark side energy, causing the room to rattle. Fixtures tore off walls, launching toward the boy. Despite their speed and trajectory, none of the projectiles reached him, lamps and statue pieces and other furniture-turned-weapons dropping to the floor with dull thuds.

The Emperor was being completely overpowered. And Palpatine was intrigued.

Against the brilliant cityscape of Imperial City, the Emperor fell to his knees. His arms collapsed, and though Palpatine’s perspective remained fixed at the office’s entrance, such a distance from the battle couldn’t hide the Emperor’s tremble.

Not with fear. Not with any emotion.

But from sheer pain.

The room reverberated as the boy pressed onward, commanding the Force’s invisible tendrils to choke his elder.

“Do it,” a new voice whispered, seemingly from nowhere.

The floating lightsaber suddenly thrust forward, its red blade piercing through the Emperor.

Around the room, the rattling stopped. The floating lightsaber’s deep-red blade withdrew into the hilt, which then dropped to the floor. The air itself seemed to exhale despite the transparisteel sealing the space. And the Emperor’s body collapsed sideways, a cold shell of weight and flesh no longer capable of a single breath. Silence crept into the room, broken only by the swish of the boy’s cloak as he turned.

Palpatine should have found the vision frightening, perhaps even threatening. And yet only mild curiosity arose. Of course another ambitious would-be conqueror existed. Such delusions were admirable; it was the way of the Sith. To not expect someone, somewhere dreaming of this was naïve in its own right. It seemed entirely possible that a disciple of the dark side trained away in the Unknown Regions with the goal of sneaking into the Core Worlds, to the heart of the Empire itself, deluded enough to have this very vision as a goal.

The boy approached, as if he could see Palpatine. As he came near, something struck Palpatine, as if another layer existed to this mystery. Nearly face-to-face, the boy knelt, then looked up and removed his hood to reveal pursed lips over a cleft chin, striking blue eyes, and unkempt blond hair that had seen too many days in the sun.

“You have done well,” the new voice said, its location now confirmed. It was coming from the very spot Palpatine experienced the vision.

As if he was the dreamer.

No. Because he was the dreamer. Or tapping into the dreamer’s vision.

A great disturbance in the Force.

And the voice: It finally registered in Palpatine’s mind. A strong, low timbre that he hadn’t heard in decades.

Anakin Skywalker.

—

It didn’t surprise Palpatine to discover that Lord Vader dreamed of overthrowing him. All Sith did. But mere dreams weren’t usually powerful enough to cause a disturbance in the Force, even ones that carried some level of potential prophecy. Something else was behind this. Something this powerful needed passion, desire behind it.

This boy, what was the connection?

And why was Lord Vader so focused on protecting him?

The vision screamed and shifted, nearly pushing Palpatine back into the vacuum of his meditation chamber, but he clung on, the dark side pulsing through to anchor him. His own murder was only the first step, and though Palpatine sensed something trying to control, perhaps even protect, the details, he held his ground, using all his will to channel the dark side. The chaos abated like dust blowing away as the vision evolved. The boy, this anonymous apprentice, now stood on a veranda beneath a blanket of stars.